


Writer's month 2020 - A Collection

by ActualMango



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/F, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Writer's Month 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25647169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualMango/pseuds/ActualMango
Summary: Just a load of little fics forWriter's Month 2020!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	1. Aerik/Teldryn - Tattoo Artist/Flower Shop AU

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [ Topsy](archiveofourown.org/users/Thanatopsiturvy/pseuds/Thanatopsiturvy) for letting me borrow their fantastic OC Aerik! Please, go check their writing out, because all of it is AMAZING.

Drops of drizzle clung to the back of Teldryn’s neck as he strode through the streets, on his way to a new tattoo. The place had opened just last month, and he’d been hankering after new ink since he’d set up shop in Solitude a year ago. All the tattoo parlors around here, of course, catered to Nordic tastes, and while they were decent, they weren’t what he was looking for.

He stopped under an awning to check the address on his phone. Yes, this was the one, and he was even right on time. He pushed open the door.

A bell tinkled, more charmingly than he’d expected, announcing his arrival to the only thing in front of him - a staircase. An unseen, cheery voice came from the floor above, slightly muffled. “Come on up!”

The parlour was light, airy, and - Teldryn noted thankfully - more sterilised than a children’s fairytale. The only person was a young Nord (well, he looked young, but humans were always hard to figure out) with half a head of blond hair and delicate indigo tattoos spidering their way up his arms, vibrant against his gold skin. He looked up from his computer as Teldryn came in, breaking into a smile.

“Hello! You’re Teldryn, right? I’m Aerik, if you didn’t know.” He smiled up at him, standing up to take his coat. He was the taller by a good few inches, and Teldryn found himself a little dizzy as he stared up into his eyes. They were amber, not that it mattered.

“Hello, Aerik. I’m not late, am I?”

“Not at all. So you just sit over here…” Aerik led him to a chair. Teldryn sat. Aerik bustled about, making enough idle small talk for both of them while he prepared books and stencils and quickly checked inside a draw full of complicated-looking tools before plopping himself into an armchair opposite Teldryn.

“So you said you were looking for a full-back tattoo? Do you know the design you want?”

“Yes and yes,” Teldryn said. Aerik talked a lot. He wondered if everyone else felt this overwhelmed by him. “You know what the Profane Tools look like?”

Aerik furrowed his eyebrows for a moment, thinking, then brightened up. “As in the Heart of Lorkhan? I have a design of them, somewhere. Give me a moment, I can find it.” He began flipping through the stencil book in his lap, frowning at the pages

“I have my own drawing, actually. Just for…” he dug around in his bag, finding the folder he used for sketching flower displays, “a reference. Here it is.” It wasn’t the most complicated of designs, but it was big, and impressive - Wraithguard, Sunder, Keening, framing the Heart of Lorkhan in stark black and white lining. Aerik took it without a word, examining it with a thoughtful expression.

“This looks good. You’re a skilled artist,” he said. “I might have to adjust it slightly - can I photocopy?”

“Sure.” Aerik went to scan the sketchbook as he settled back in his chair. He was muscular. Teldryn snapped his eyes away.

A couple of minutes later - “All done!” Aerik said cheerfully. He let Teldryn take his drawing back. “Now, handsome, if you’ll come over here…”

_ Handsome? _ Teldryn thought, chuckling quietly to himself. Aerik was certainly a character, and he reckoned the next few hours would be... interesting.

\--

Teldryn was no stranger to being inked, and he knew that for the artists, seeing someone shirtless was just part of the job. And he wasn’t exactly the bashful type. But even so, being led to the chair and directed onto his front felt so much less…  _ professional _ today. Aerik barely touched him while he got settled, and yet already the air was charged. He put it off to nerves.

“That alright?” Aerik asked, after a few moments under the needle.

Teldryn didn’t laugh, but only to avoid messing up Aerik’s work. “Perfectly fine. As you might have guessed,” he twitched his shoulders, where his boldest, most visible tattoos were, “I’m used to it by now.”

Aerik hummed acknowledgement and kept going. It was a little unnerving not being able to see  _ anything _ that was going on, but Teldryn knew well enough that he should trust him. This was only the first session, anyway. So he rested his head on his arms and watched Aerik as he worked, relegating the pain of the needle to a place somewhere back in his mind.

He was examining the portfolio wall displaying tattoos when Aerik said something, jolting him to the real world. “So where’d you come from?”

“Originally? Blacklight. It’s a beautiful city…”

Their conversation was easy, light. Aerik was born in Solitude. Went to Winterhold. Came back. Started a tattoo parlour, as one does. He was a relaxing conversationalist - he seemed to know almost by instinct when to ask more, when to let it peter out, and when to break lulls by clarifying the tattoo design or tell him how it was going. By the time the session ended, Teldryn was more relaxed than when he’d come in, even having been stabbed by a needle the whole time.

They agreed when he would come for the next session. Teldryn paid him. Aerik thanked him and hoped he was happy with the tattoo so far. It was an utterly professional transaction. --

The whole tattoo took several sessions, and, lacking many other topics of conversation, Teldryn learnt a lot about Aerik Havardr. Not all of them were said out loud, either. He learnt that Aerik had a habit of touching Teldryn for just a  _ little _ too long while he worked, and that he had two different laughs - when he was placating, or being polite, and when he really  _ laughed _ . It was a beautiful sound, one that Teldryn did his best to hear as often as possible. Teldryn also learnt about himself. Namely, that there must have been something wrong with the nerves in his skin, because wherever Aerik touched him, even without the needle, he swore his skin burnt up.

Now, there was only one session left, for touch-ups. That was tomorrow. Right now, Teldryn was knelt in front of the window of his shop, idly rearranging the display to while away the time before he shut.

If you had told Teldryn 50 years ago that he would arrange flowers for a living, he would have laughed in your face. Then again, he also wouldn’t have believed he’d live in Solitude, or that he’d  _ enjoy _ arranging flowers for a living. It had taken longer than he’d have liked to learn the tricks of the trade, but the work suited him. So much of his life had been in turmoil, roiling like magma, but there was a certain peace that came with the picking, and the snipping, and the wrapping, and the binding, and the creating, a peace that he needed.

He was just debating which side the dragon’s tongue would look better on when he heard the door to the shop open. “I’ll be with you in a moment!” he called out, not looking to see who was coming in.

“Oh, no problem,” a voice said. A shockingly familiar voice, that Teldryn had recently been listening to for hours at a time.

“Aerik!” Teldryn stood up hurriedly, abandoning the dragon’s tongue to lean to the left. Aerik was standing half in the doorway, as if ready to leave at a moment's notice. “I didn’t know you offered check-ups on your favourite customers.” Did he really just say that?

“Actually,” Aerik said, shutting the door on the evening outside, “I wanted to buy some flowers.” He grinned. “You do sell flowers, right? This isn’t a front?”

Teldryn wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just motioned Aerik further inside. He had to admit - he was surprised Aerik was here. He’d mentioned being a florist, of course, but he hadn’t expected Aerik to actually pay attention to the random drivel they talked about, let alone track him down. And from what he could tell, Aerik wasn’t the type to buy flowers.

Then again, Teldryn wasn’t the type to own a flower shop.

“So, what brings you to my humble abode?” Teldryn drawled, perching himself on the counter. Aerik dithered before him.

“I-” Aerik was fidgeting, Teldryn realised, twisting his finger nervously. “There’s someone I like. And I know  _ they _ like flowers. So I was wondering if you’d...”

“I see.” Why did the pit of Teldryn’s stomach feel like it was sinking to the floor? “And you’d like to buy a bouquet for them?”

“Yeah!” He nodded to the board in front of Teldryn’s desk, where the various types of flower on offer were detailed. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Teldryn laughed. “It’s my job, Aerik, so it’s no trouble at all. How soon do you want it?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Well...” Teldryn checked his watch. It was four in the afternoon. There were no more orders to fill today… “I can do it now, if you’d like.”

“Really?” Aerik’s eyes lit up. “That would be - that would be great, thank you.”

“Let’s get to it,” Teldryn said, swinging himself off the counter and swiping a reel of ribbon on his way to the table, Aerik following at his heels. “So for the base, I’ll use…”

\--

Half an hour later, Aerik left happy, clutching his flowers like a pageboy. Teldryn watched him go with something akin to regret hanging from his heart. It had been a lovely half and hour - they’d chatted like old friends while Teldryn worked - but it was time to go on. Aerik would hopefully be successful with the lucky person he was courting, and Teldryn would have a nice evening wondering about it and trying not to think about the man who’d etched the tattoo on his back.

Gods, he was hopeless.

Lacking customers and suspecting there would be no more, Teldryn decided to close up early. He had just finished tending to the flowers on display for the night when he heard someone thumping down the stairs out back. “You alright over there?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Geldis called back. He came into view carrying a crate, puffing and out of breath. “I can’t stay long, but someone left something for you. He was in a hurry. I left it on the table.”

Teldryn followed Geldis back upstairs, where, true to his word, there was a something on the table in their shared flat. This, too, was oddly familiar. In fact, Teldryn realised when he picked it up, it was almost  _ identical _ to the flowers he’d prepared for Aerik not an hour ago.

“Did the person who left this,” he said slowly, still staring at the white ribbon he’d used to tie the bouquet, “have blond hair, amber eyes and a penchant for nervous rambling?”

“That he did,” Geldis said. “Why do y-  _ oh _ .” He picked up another crate and motioned for Teldryn to pass his keys. “Have fun. You should probably read the note.”

Teldryn only nodded vaguely,  _ still _ staring at the flowers for a few moments until Geldis was safely down the stairs and out the door. Then he unfolded the note - the same note Aerik had written on earlier, but hidden from Teldryn, claiming it was embarrassing.

_ I hope you like the flowers. ;) _ it read, in Aerik’s messy handwriting. Followed by a phone number.

Teldryn smiled. Picked the note up to look at it more closely, as if he could break the illusion. Chuckled to himself. Shook his head in disbelief. Sighed. Ran a hand nervously through his hair. Then picked up the phone and dialed the number.

He couldn’t wait for his appointment tomorrow.

  
  



	2. The Factions - Quarantine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The different factions of Skyrim, and how well they deal with quarantine.

The Companions are already keeping a part of themselves deep inside, so adding another way to limit themselves does  _ not _ help. Aela is seriously considering just turning into a werewolf in the living quarters if she can’t run free outside. Kodlak is seriously considering just letting her do it. Farkas sleeps all day, only getting up to hunt for wild sweetrolls in their natural habitat, the communal kitchen, even though Skjor has laid vicious claim to them. He’s the most territorial of the lot at normal times, and when he’s stuck in Jorrvaskr, he practically growls if you come near his food. Vilkas starts quarantine determined to be productive - buying books about obscure Tamrielic philosophy, running laps around the room, baking a shop’s worth of bread - but by the end, he’s switching between three newspapers and sleeping until noon like everyone else, interspersed with wild 3 A.M. conspiracy theories that poor Farkas has to listen to. Nobody knows how they get food.

Members of the Thieves Guild rely on being able to get out and about to do their ‘jobs’ - so, naturally, most of them ignore the rules. Some of them are more healthy about it than others, but within a few weeks Brynjolf has them persuaded to at least be subtle about breaking that particular law. The other laws, of course, are still as easy to break as paper, and many abandoned workplaces find their tills mysteriously robbed - or, as Vex likes to call it, liberated. Vekel is ecstatic when the lockdown news is announced - more bored thieves moping around the Ragged Flagon means more drinks sold.

The Dark Brotherhood, too, depend on being able to leave their hideout, but their presence in cities is so often illegal even out of quarantine that there’s very little difference. Babette giggles with glee over new, dastardly poisons. Cicero giggles for no discernable reason. In his frustration, Arnbjorn swings his axe around enough to nearly take Veezara’s head off, and complains to Astrid when he’s stopped. No one is quite sure what Gabriella is doing. When Astrid tells Festus off for slinging fireballs around (to keep his skills sharp, he claims, although all of his training comes dangerously close to Arnbjorn a few too many times), he unleashes Shadowmere within the Sanctuary instead. Chaos ensues. Nazir is reaping the multitude of new contracts - Skyrim’s couples being stuck in the same house for weeks on end makes for prolific. Most of the time he doesn’t even need rumours or the Listener to tell him where the potential targets are. He just sends someone swinging into a house to ask if one spouse wants the other disposed of. It’s their most profitable year in decades.

At the College of Winterhold, nothing changes. Mirabelle tried, bless her, but if Savos Aren can’t be stopped by the messy aftermath of the Great Collapse, the tragic events at Saarthal, and a host of missing apprentices, a silly little thing like a pandemic barely flutters his feathers.


	3. Saffethi - Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why Saffethi went to Winterhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW - some descriptions of electrical burns and violence - nothing major, but just a heads-up.

The people of Skyrim generally had an  _ interesting _ relationship with magic, to put it mildly, and Saffethi Balu was no exception. Since childhood, she had heard hushed whispers of terrible mages, bloated with power until they brought themselves down - or, more often, were brought down by the straightforward warriors that saw the danger before it was too late. Azra Nightwielder, Mannimarco, a group of Dunmer called the Telvanni - no matter how vehemently her parents insisted these rumours were nothing to be scared of, Saffethi was scared of them.

For her, magic was violent. The first time she sent lightning arcing from her palms, she was only thirteen. Bandits were raiding Riften, and she was cornered on her way back from the forests outside the city walls, where she’d been gathering flowers for her father’s potions. Taking the shortcut through the graveyard to get as quickly as possible to the temple was the worst decision she could have made.

Her back was up against the filthy, cold stone wall, and she recoiled in terror as the bandit leaned in closer, catching a whiff of his breath. The battleaxe hefted in his hands looked strong and sharp enough to cut down an oak in one blow. Screams and yells sounded from the direction of the marketplace - the guards were preoccupied. She was alone.

He caught her eyes shifting towards the back streets leading to the gates, where her only chance of escape lay. “Don’t think you’ll be runnin’ away from me any time, my sweet,” he growled, stepping even closer until he towered above her. She couldn’t help trembling like a fawn. “Stay still, there’s a good girl… cutting off your head won’t hurt me at all.”

She screeched wildly - “ _ Get  _ away _ from me! _ ”. After that, she remembered very little. Black terror. The silvery gleam of the axe. White-hot purple light. The sickening pink burns crawling over the bandit’s body.

He took a long time to stop twitching.

It took her an even longer time to find it within her to move. The first thing she did was to hold her arms up to examine them, examine the matching burn marks she now sported. Where the bandit’s were pink and raw, her’s were as bone white as old scars, slightly raised. The pattern was mesmerising. She could have looked at it for days, but for the man she’d just killed.  _ The man she’d just killed _ .

She was lucky she’d been alone. When one of her parents’ priests of the temple found her, they hadn’t been able to hide the body, claimed they’d done it. That priest had nearly been chased out of town - only being a servant of Mara Mother Mild had saved them. At the time, Saffethi hadn’t been aware enough to be grateful. She was too obsessed with keeping her lightning locked away, deep inside, so that she wouldn’t hurt anyone else. She could heal and fade her scars, but that was  _ all _ she could do.

From then on, Saffethi could never escape the slow-acting dread that crept through her every time someone mentioned magic, or storms, or those mythical mages. Magic was violent, and it hurt, and it killed.

Her mother began teaching her healing magic, in an effort to show her that magic could be gentle, be kind, not scorch the life from the earth. And Saffethi was good at it - weaving together wounds, purging illness from the body, soothing a fever, they all required the serenity that she forced on herself in her attempts not to lose control again. But it didn’t matter how many wrongs she righted - she was too scared of herself, of the scars running up her arms and the look in the bandit’s face as he died. Something had to be done.

\--

Her mother, Dinya, was surprised one day when her daughter came into the temple looking more excited than she had in years. She was a young woman by now, and taller than her, although she still had a way to go until she beat her father. (It was the Redguard in her). “I think I’m going to go to the College of Winterhold.”

“Oh,” Dinya said. She carefully marked her page and closed the book she was reading, putting it on the bench beside her. “Why?”

“Why not?” Saffethi sat down next to her, neatly folding her robes out of the way - priest’s robes, given to everyone serving Mara, initiate or grand cultist. “I can learn there. I can learn Restoration, and Alteration. I have skill in magic, so they should let me in, and I’ve already got an application letter ready to send. The main series of lessons starts in only a month or two.” Her words were as smooth and steady as always. Only brief wobbles in pitch betrayed her excitement. “I’d love to go.”

Dinya nodded, looking up at the brass statue of Mara, in pride of place at the front of the temple. It was impassive, of course it was; Mara did not tend to Her followers through cold, unloving metal. But in the hazy shafts of afternoon light, soft through the windows, highlighting columns of dust drifting lazily through the air - Dinya swore she saw the flicker of a proud smile on Mara’s face.

She looked back at her daughter, who was staring at her, an eager expression on her face. “It feels odd asking for permission, I know,” Saffethi said, twisting her hands in her lap. “I should be too old for that, and I should be making my own way in the world.” She swallowed. “But - you and Maramal know Mara better than me. Would she be angry with me, for abandoning my position here?”

Dinya shifted around to look her daughter full in the face, taking her hands into her own lap. They were just subtly different - while Dinya’s skin was a cool, uniform grey, Saffethi’s were warm, almost brown in their hue. She was so much more than her mother or her father. “Would you really be abandoning your post? Mara doesn’t only have use for temple acolytes and stationary healers. Why shouldn’t you go to Winterhold? Spread love beyond Riften? Nobody could find fault with that.” Saffethi had broken out into a grin, but Dinya wasn’t done yet. “And if you just so happen to learn the ways of magic in your travels, then all the better.”

Saffethi pulled her into a fierce hug. “Thank you. I’ll go, I’ll send the letter. Thank you.”

\--

Of course, Saffethi hadn’t told her mother all the schools of magic she intended to study. Restoration, Alteration - these were noble, yes. But deep within her was the urge to learn more about the lightning that she couldn’t control. The lightning that she couldn’t control -  _ yet _ .


	4. Saffethi/Thyri - Long Distance Relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A selection of letters written while Thyri was out travelling.

Dear Saffie,

You told me to write. I wasn’t sure if you were joking, but I’m doing it anyway! You’ll probably be pleased to know I’ve made it south ok. Helped some weird jester take his dead mother to Falkreath, something like that. I didn’t ask questions. He’s gone now. That means I’m in Falkreath, not Whiterun, but I’ll head that way tomorrow to send this letter. No point in paying a courier for the part of the journey I can take myself. Maybe there’ll be something interesting - there’s this little mountain village, Halgen, or somesuch. Might visit there. Writing this down like I’m talking to you makes this easy to plan.

How is it up there? It feels odd not being in Winterhold. If Len is still making her _their_ poisons, make sure they remember the timings for boiling and steeping and all that. I’m not there to remind them, and you know they hate writing things down. And tell Colette that yes, I’m fine. No grave injuries yet.

There isn’t else to say. I’ll tell you if anything interesting happens. Tell  _ me _ if anything interesting happens.

Love you,

Thyri.

\--

Dear Saffie,

I don’t want to waste too much paper on this, so I’ll say it. Something’s happened. It’s really big, but I don’t want to tell you by a letter. I need you to make me tell you when I come back to visit Winterhold. I’m fine. Don’t worry. But it’s big.

I know, I don’t like Ancano either. He took my father’s room, for Kyne’s sake! And from what I’ve heard of the Thalmor down here, we’re right to worry about him and the Eye. That’s what it’s called, right? I just hope he doesn’t go crazy on us.

Whiterun is a pretty city. You’d like it. It’s so  _ warm _ here, though, I don’t know how you stood it in Riften. I feel like my armour’ll dissolve in my sweat every sunny day. Still, it’s pretty. And there’s good hunting to the west, if you don’t mind being seen by everyone for miles around, and having no snow to track in until the winter. I’m not used to this.

By the way, I’m sending this Dwemer thing I got in return for some item I fetched with the letter. I don’t know how she had a Dwemer thing either, but you’ll like it more than me.

Love you (and miss you)

Thyri

\--

Saffie,

I heard about Winterhold. I don’t know if you’re alive. I don’t know if there is a Winterhold to talk about any more. I don’t know if this letter will reach you before I do, or if you’re even where Winterhold was. But I’m coming.

Thyri


	5. X - Soulmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Placeholder - I'll get to this eventually

Placeholder


	6. Thyri & Ranmir - Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ranmir takes teenage Thyri abseiling.

“This is the most important knot,” Ranmir said, watching Thyri attempt to tie the rope for the fourth time. “No, the other way around, that’s it, loop it under...”

They were crouching in the snow a few feet from the edge of the Winterhold Cliffs, just outside the shadow of the College, and Thyri had tried this abseiling knot three times already, glaring at Ranmir when he badly suppressed his laughter. Her hair was wound back into a plait so as not to snag on the ropes when she climbed, but at this rate, it would be useless. “Why can’t you do it for me?”

“I’m considering it,” Ranmir said. Light flakes of snow drifted into his hair as he leant forwards to help. A prickle of anxiety raced under Thyri’s skin - a small, well-timed push, and he’d be toppling over the edge and into the ocean below.

“Over the top… quick tie around… There! You did it!” He grinned as she finally wrapped one rope around another rope in a satisfactory pattern and held it up to show him. “Now you just have to use it.”

Thyri nodded, even as she tried to gulp away her worry.  _ It’ll be fine _ , she thought desperately.  _ Ranmir won’t let you drown _ .

He showed her how to wind the rope around herself, where to hold on, what to do if anything got stuck, and then she was tying the rope to one of the posts of the bridge, doing her best not to fiddle anxiously with the knot around her waist. Lacking any new students to corral, Faralda was watching with interest, leaning just far enough over the side of the bridge to be stressful.

The whole thing had been Ranmir’s idea. Thyri had been moping around since all the College students had disappeared for the summer, so he had suggested teaching her something to do. Sailing was out - even if there were boats, the waters were far too rough - but with such an invitingly large expanse of cliffs available, it was only a matter of time before he suggested abseiling. He’d insisted on using the ‘proper techniques’ as well.

(“Why can’t I just use some Feather? It’ll be much easier.”

“That’s not the way you do it, girlie.”

He’d refused to explain any more.)

They climbed over the edge of the cliff on their separate ropes, Ranmir dispensing a trickle of advice all the while. “Grip the rope looser than that. Get yourself over the edge… that’s it. Pretend you’re walking backwards - look at the cliff, not the sea, Thyri, or you’ll never look away, I know you well enough.”

It was exhilarating, being this side of the precipice, the wind almost blowing her and Ranmir into the cliff face with each gust. Cold, rough rock under her hands, each foothold a lifeline, carrying her a little further down. At the very base of the cliffs, the sea smacked against the rocks like a jilted lover, sending spray up in a wild tempest.

The cold didn’t bother her - she was raised here, and a Nord at that. That wasn’t the worry. The worry was the ocean, harsh and roiling and ready to suck her under if she so much as breathed the wrong way-

Her foot slipped.

She shrieked like a child as she swung into the rocks, hard, unable to keep a grip. At the same moment, she jolted down, sliding down an inch. The knot wasn’t holding. The ropes were too wet. There was nothing stopping her from plummeting into the abyss that was the sea below.

She heard Ranmir call to her, but all she could hear was muffling noise, like holding a shell to her ear. Scrabbled for purchase, in vain, desperately trying to lift herself a little higher, tasting the salt in the air from the spray - oh, gods, the sea was that close?

“ _ Thyri! _ ” A couple of Ranmir’s words made it through the echoing in her ears. “Grab the rope… I’m co… stay where you…” She did her best, but the rope burned in her grip, and the sea was  _ so close _ . She was going to drown, just like she’d always promised herself she wouldn’t.

She shrieked again as something grabbed her arm, but it was only Ranmir. “Are you looking at me? It’s ok. We’re ok. We’re going to go further down.”

“What?! We’ll drown.”

“No we won’t, I can swim. You won’t drown. I promise you.” Thyri looked at him - eyes wide, almost pleading. She believed him.

Without a word, she nodded and let herself slide, gently, down the rope, an inch at a time. Over the crashing of the waves, she heard Ranmir breathe a sigh of relief next to her.

They took their time descending, until the crests of the waves were nipping at their heels. Not once did Ranmir make her go ahead of him, or let her knot slip down out of their control. Thyri’s heart rate took even longer to slow down. Even when they were safely standing in a shallow patch, damp but alive, she couldn’t rid herself of the pounding in her ears. She was used to the sea being some vague, down-there thing, only ever encountered from the safe distance of the bridge. Not something she could taste and touch and be killed by. But she wouldn’t be killed. She had to trust Ranmir.

“There’s a path up the side just along here,” he shouted over the waves. “Follow me.”

She followed.


End file.
